


Taste of Relief on Your Lips

by ziusura



Series: press on me; we are endless beings [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: But it turned out okay, Communication, Dom/sub, Feelings Jam, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Impact Play, M/M, bad reaction to sex, beginning relationships, very light though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziusura/pseuds/ziusura
Summary: They try this for real.





	Taste of Relief on Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Hey long time no see. I'll admit this has been sitting half done in my drafts since I published the last one whoops. 
> 
> Jackson and Stiles actually talk, and Danny finds out. Turned out not being a smut one-shot but uh, have some feelings?
> 
> Warnings: Attempt at a scene and sex, but a character who thought he was ready turned out to not be. (you can prob guess who ha). But this time they actually communicate!

He’d been in Stiles’ room more and more often lately—just to talk, to Jackson’s displeasure—but the space between Stiles’ desk chair and his bed had never seemed so fucking big. 

Jackson’s shoes were still on, but he kept nudging at the heel of one foot like he was going to take one off. He’d thought about it, but every time he just ended up shifting uncomfortably where he sat on the side of Stiles bed because if he took them off he could put his feet up on the bed and that was just too intimate for them. 

Stiles shoes were off—bare feet tapping against his bedroom floor as he spoke more and more and fucking _more_ from his desk chair. If Jackson had to force himself through these talks he at least wanted to be next to Stiles, or give himself the option of hiding from Stiles in a way that wasn’t possible with him sitting right across from him. But no, the ‘temptation’ or whatever meant Stiles plopped himself in his desk chair and Jackson got the chair across the room by his closet—at least until Jackson decided ‘ _fuck it_ if I have to do this I want a comfy seat.’ Temptation was a load of bull though; there was far more tension between them when they were face to face and snarling. 

“Stiles, we’ve been talking about this for hours—I’m ready.” 

And days before those hours even. If Jackson had to talk about how they were boning, or going to bone, even a little bit more Jackson was going to talk himself right out of doing it, and he didn’t want that. He liked the whatever this was. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and his bare feet slid forward against his floor, finally still. “Well excuse me for being prepared.” 

“We’ve shot past worried grandma levels of preparedness and have gone straight into cult apocalypse bunker territory.” 

And fuck, even Stiles’ sense of humor had started rubbing off on him. They hadn’t fucked since they _actually_ started a relationship, and he was already spewing idiotic shit. Fucking shoot him if he started quoting weird sci-fi. 

Stiles huffed out a short laugh like he hadn’t been expecting it—but fuck him Jackson was funny—and looked off to his side, cracking his knuckles against his jaw nervously. “I just...I want this to go right,” he said quietly, and Jackson swallowed against his suddenly dry throat. 

The level of caring in that sentence made something in Jackson’s stomach squirm, and he nudged the back of his shoe again, but didn’t slip his shoe off. He and Stiles were dating in name, but nothing—no feelings or shit like that—had been shared and Jackson had no fucking clue where he stood, but there was no way in hell he’d ask either. With Lydia they clicked until they hadn’t anymore. It’d taken a big fuckup on Jackson’s part and it’d ended as easily as it’d started—but with Stiles...With Stiles it was already way more different, and Jackson had fucked up more times than he ever had with Lydia in a much shorter time span. 

Jackson smoothed the front of his shirt down and pushed out his discomfort with the nonexistent wrinkles. “Well in order for it to go any way at all, you’ve got to fucking start.” 

“Pu _shy_ ,” Stiles said with a little laughter in his voice, and he’d turned back to face Jackson. “That sort of behavior gets an ass-slap or maybe a little orgasm denial,” he adds offhandedly, then immediately freezes when he realizes what he’d said. 

Jackson’s in a similar state. It wasn’t just the feelings stuff they didn’t talk about. As much as they’d been talking about what is and isn’t cool during sex between them, it hadn’t transferred to anything casual. Jackson had barely admitted to himself and Stiles that he liked this, and Stiles saying something like that—a _joke_ about _that_ —made his blood run cold. 

But more than that, it made everything else go hot. Jackson’s eyes widened and he sucked in his bottom lip because if he let it go at all he was going to do what his first instinct was telling him, and his first instinct was to drop to his knees and beg ‘ _please no, he’d be good_.’ His second was whispering how great an idea it was, so Jackson bit down on his lip hard enough to cause pain. 

Stiles let out a slow breath, but didn’t take his eyes off of Jackson. He was probably broadcasting every one of his thoughts at Stiles, and it left Jackson feeling embarrassed, but mostly raw, exposed. Stiles knew he wanted this shit, and yet. Jackson had to get better. 

“My dad’ll drop in for dinner sometime in the next half hour, and then he’s covering Maggie’s shift since her kid’s sick. I’m. I’m waiting for that.” 

“Oh,” Jackson said tightly, nerves bubbling in his stomach. 

Then they were doing this. That night. Jackson just had to tell himself his palms weren’t sweaty from fear.

* * *

Jackson tried to pretend he was only half interested, and half listening to the sounds from downstairs, but it was useless. He spent the past half hour or so staring up at Stiles’ ceiling and hearing the Sheriff and Stiles eat and talk about boring unimportant stuff. It was different than how Jackson interacted with Karen (and David if he happened to be home for dinner), and he squashed down the thoughts that bubbled up about maybe having that with Stiles too. 

He rolled over with a sigh and pressed his face into Stiles’ pillow like he couldn’t when Stiles was there, at least not without Stiles making some shitty sarcastic comment about it. Maybe it was a werewolf thing, maybe it was a weird sub thing, maybe it was neither. No matter what the reason was, it felt nice.

There was a sound of chairs scraping against the kitchen floor and some footsteps that meant dinner was coming to a close, and Jackson took one last deep breath and forced himself back onto his back. 

Stiles walked into his bedroom and shut the door with a click, but Jackson didn’t pull his eyes off the ceiling. The Sheriff’s car started up outside.

“Did you bring me something?” Jackson asked, and something hit him in the chest. It was a poorly wrapped half a burrito—not really anything filling, but Jackson was hungry and he’d eat something when he got back after. Or maybe after-after, when he and Stiles had worked up an appetite and Jackson wasn’t ready to go home. 

“You could’ve come down and eaten with us,” Stiles said, and Jackson felt the bed dip beside him. 

Jackson focused on the burrito so he wouldn’t have to focus on Stiles, but even that was futile. Jackson’s senses were picking up on everything—the slight change in Stiles scent that Jackson hoped meant arousal, the increased pace of his heart, the heat coming off his skin only inches away. 

“I still have that restraining order on you and Scott, and your dad isn’t exactly going to forget that.” 

He wasn’t prepared for the soft punch to his arm, nor Stiles’ lingering caress, and Jackson coughed around the bit of rice and beans that had tried to go down the wrong pipe. 

“You haven’t fixed that yet?” Stiles hissed harshly in his ear, sitting closer now. 

Jackson swallowed down his bite. “No,” he said tightly. 

To be honest he’d forgotten about it until he’d needed an excuse not to go downstairs and greet Stiles’ dad with him. He didn’t like the idea of intruding on an intimacy he’d never felt with his family, especially not for a relationship so new and soft like a fresh bruise. 

Stiles didn’t answer, and Jackson didn’t continue. He ate in silence, and Stiles’ hand was still on Jackson, rubbing small circles on his shoulder like he couldn’t help himself. _Now_ who was impatient. Not that Jackson minded that much. 

Stiles stood up after Jackson started chewing the last bite and said, “Do you want a water?” 

He did, but Jackson wasn’t disgusting like Stiles and chose to nod his head yes instead of speaking with his mouth full. 

Stiles walked over to and bent over a case on the other side of the room, and Jackson let his eyes run over the shape of Stiles ass, his thighs, the dexterity in his long fingers when he pulled out a water. That was normal. 

“If you got anything in my bed, this is me threatening you,” Stiles said as he came up, and Jackson rolled the burrito wrapper up. 

Jackson’s first thought, ‘ _you could always punish me for it_ ,’ was _not_ normal. It felt like he still had rice or little bits of chicken stuck in his throat, and Jackson swallowed around them. He wanted this, so it didn’t matter if it was normal or not. It was just...him and Stiles. 

“They’d probably be the cleanest thing in this trash heap,” Jackson said instead, and Stiles chucked the bottle at Jackson’s head, but he was grinning. 

“ _You’re_ sitting on that bed you know.”

Jackson shrugged. “It smells so strongly of jizz I’m sure I’m covered in it, and that brings me down to your disgusting level.” 

Jackson resolutely does not let himself notice the way Stiles breath caught when he said ‘covered,’ nor the way his heartbeat picked up in response. 

Stiles put his knee on the bed, inches from Jackson’s thigh and leaned in slightly. Jackson set the unopened water and the balled up burrito wrapper on the bedside table, precariously balanced on some magazines and a tissue box. 

“You’ve had my jizz in your mouth,” Stiles said, and he leaned in the rest of the way to meet Jackson’s lips. 

Stiles mouth was chapped and tasted like his dinner. He pressed slightly too hard and whatever spicy sauce he’d put on his burrito was burning Jackson’s lips, but it felt so good anyway. Everything he’d wanted from that pillow was right there on him, with him, around him.

It was way too fucking much. 

Jackson pulled back slightly, just enough to disconnect their lips and turn his head to the side, and ran a hand down Stiles’ flank. Stiles wasn’t even fully on the bed yet and Jackson was feeling like this. 

“C’mon,” Jackson mumbled against Stiles’ cheek, and the muscles under his lips fluttered. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and he turned Jackson’s face just enough to start kissing him again. 

Stiles’ body settled over him, pushing Jackson into the mattress slightly, and Jackson hadn’t had nerves squirming in his belly like this since the first time he’d kissed someone back in seventh grade. His chest felt tight, restricted, and Stiles threaded his fingers into Jackson’s hair, pulled him closer by his grip.

The sharp little pinpricks across his scalp were just a taste of what he knew Stiles could deliver, a trailer for the main event, and Jackson’s face grew hot. He’d wanted this for so long now—the buzzing under his skin and restlessness he felt being the closest thing he could assign to wanting, because who in the hell could actually _want_ any of this? 

The tightness only got worse.

No tension released, but it was _supposed_ to. That was the way it had always worked; Stiles told him to do something, or punished him, or whatever, and it made Jackson feel looser, good. But it wasn’t working.

Jackson opened his mouth to try and suck in a breath, but Stiles’ mouth followed with it and Jackson couldn’t fucking breathe. Stiles shifted his hips into him and moaned softly into Jackson’s mouth, and holy shit that was definitely a hardon. But Jackson...Jackson wasn’t at all. 

He couldn’t breathe and he wasn’t hard, but Stiles wasn’t doing anything different. Jackson fucked this up again. Their entire relationship was built on sex and he couldn’t even do _this_ right. 

Stiles pulled back suddenly, and it was like someone had thrown Jackson off of a cliff into a freezing ocean—the breath stopping fear, the slowing of time, the icy wall of water slamming into his body. _Shit_ , Stiles had realized something was up. 

Jackson reached up and scrambled at Stiles’ shirt for some leverage, for something to pull him back into Jackson because Jackson needed this to work. He put way too much into this for Jackson’s body to fuck up when he was finally getting what he needed. 

Stiles’ hands grabbed at his wrists, their heat searing into his skin, but he didn’t pull Jackson away, didn’t seem able to. 

Vibrations in Stiles’ chest traveled up Jackson’s hands, but Jackson couldn’t hear what he was saying. Not until Stiles pulled himself off the bed and away from Jackson, anyway. There was a sharp tearing noise, and then a loud, “Jackson,” and Jackson fell back against the bed, completely tense. 

Stiles stood next to that fucking computer chair, still in the same place it was during all their talks, his hands at his sides and his shirt in shreds. He looked concerned, but Jackson could smell sweat and the strange bitterness to it that he’d come to understand was fear. 

Jackson had fucked up _bad_.

“If you didn’t like the shirt you should’ve just said so,” Stiles said lightly, with a forced bit of laughter that made Jackson feel like curling in on himself. 

What kind of pathetic dickhole who asked for this shit couldn’t perform? Couldn’t even get hard enough to fake it until he actually was into it? Jackson couldn’t even _sub_ right. 

Jackson was out the door before he was aware of it, and long gone before Stiles had a chance to speak. 

* * *

_Thwack_.

The ball hit the tree just under the can and ricocheted off into a direction Jackson didn’t feel like going. He had a bucket full of them by his feet anyway. 

_Thwack_.

His palm burned from his tight grip on his lacrosse stick, and it really needed the laces tightened, but if he tried to do anything other than shoot into the can he’d start thinking about earlier. About how he—no. 

His knuckles scraped across the bottom of the five gallon bucket, and he loaded up another ball. 

_Thwing_.

Dead center. At least he still had that going for him.

“Nice one.” 

Jackson startled, so focused on what he was doing that he hadn’t picked up on anyone approaching. He knew the voice though, and it was that reason alone that kept him from instinctively lashing out. 

He turned to see Danny a few feet from his bucket, offering a Gatorade with one hand and holding a few lacrosse balls in the other. 

“I thought you’d be drinking,” Danny said as Jackson set his lax stick down and grabbed the Gatorade. His favorite flavor—Danny must’ve gone out of his way to get it since Danny didn’t like blue Gatorade enough to have it at home. 

Jackson was quiet for a moment, his attention fully on uncapping the lid. There wasn’t much he remembered from his journey to this spot, but it would’ve been nice if his mindless run had included a stop to his house’s liquor cabinet. At least then he wouldn’t care that he was feeling so numb. 

“I wish I was,” Jackson said, and his voice sounded so fucked up he self consciously swallowed and brought the drink to his mouth. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was, but it’d been dark when he’d run out of Stiles’ house and it’d been dark when he’d gotten here—Jackson had no idea how long he’d been out here.

Danny made a noncommittal noise and dropped the balls he’d collected into the bucket. “So,” he began, then leaned up against a nearby tree, the very picture of relaxed. Jackson envied that. “Stiles called me.”

The Gatorade bottle crinkled lightly under Jackson’s fingertips. Stiles called him for _what?_ To break up with him through Danny because Jackson fucked up and at least he wouldn’t try and punch Danny (and start the cycle over again, but maybe that way was easier)? 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, he was rambling on like, well _Stiles_ , about ‘how something happened but not something bad so I shouldn’t worry more than a little,’ but he seemed pretty worried. What I want to know is if I need to help you beat him up.” 

Jackson sucked in a quiet breath and stilled the dread churning in his stomach. “So he sent you to what? Check up on me?” 

Danny shrugged a little, but he had a sheepish look on his face, like the time Jackson caught him making out with Jackson’s cousin instead of being his support at the Whittemore family reunion. Jackson had thought he and Stiles had officially started a No Talking About Jackson’s Thing rule, but did Stiles tell? Heat pooled uncomfortably in his stomach, and his hands went cold. Did Danny know about him? 

“This whole thing with Stiles it—” Danny rubbed a hand across his mouth, looked like he wasn’t going to finish. “—it feels like the quiet before the storm. I’ve been waiting for this to blow up, and I was scared it was tonight—he seemed so _worried_.” 

 

Jackson ran his thumb across the open lip of the bottle, wishing more than anything that it was something strong and alcohol filled. He’d love to be able to forget this entire night. 

“Well, clearly I’m fine,” he said darkly. Fuck Danny for not trusting him, and fuck Stiles for thinking he needed a...a babysitter. He just needed to get out, to be by himself and not think for a little while. “So you can go back to your new boyfriend and report that Jackson’s just fine. Sober and everything, even.” 

Danny popped off the tree, and damnit there was the pity Jackson didn’t fucking want. He took a step forward, and Jackson’s hand clenched tighter around the Gatorade bottle. 

“I—Jackson, where is this coming from? Was I right? _Did_ Stiles hurt you?” 

No, but he would’ve if Jackson’s body would just fucking cooperate like they wanted. 

Jackson flung the Gatorade bottle as hard as he could at the tree just past Danny, blue Gatorade sloshing out of the bottle when it smacked against the bark, and as an afterthought, flung the cap too. Danny’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and Jackson regretted throwing the only things in his hands away because now he had nothing to hide the shaking. 

Jackson ground his teeth together and turned his head because at least then he wouldn’t have to see Danny’s surprised pity. “I thought you came here to break up with me for him,” he said quietly, and he might as well have been drunk because at least then he’d have some excuse for sounding so pathetic. 

“Why would I...is that something he’d do? Is he that much of an ass—” 

Jackson ripped around and shouted, “No would you stop? It wasn’t Stiles that fucked it up, okay. It was me, so you can put away the pitchforks and go report back because I. Am. _Fine_.” And leave Jackson in peace so he can mope around without judgement or pity looks. 

“Jackson, what the hell happened?” Danny asked, more a statement than a question, and he was standing so much closer than Jackson remembered, near enough to reach out and squeeze Jackson’s shoulder if he wanted. 

Fear crawled up his throat and left an icy trail through his guts. He couldn’t. It was bad enough that Stiles knew about this _thing_ , and Jackson didn’t want to actually know what Danny’s face would look like if he knew Jackson wasn’t perfect, wasn’t the alpha male he needed to be—he’d imagined it enough times already. 

“I can’t,” Jackson forced out. He needed someone in his corner, but not for that price. 

Danny visibly swallowed, the entire column of his neck shifting down along with the corners of his lips. “Okay, I—Jackson you’re my best friend and I trust you, so please just tell me if it’s something that could hurt you.”

Jackson’s stomach rolled, but he kept his mouth shut. 

“Or don’t if it’s the mafia or something,” Danny added with a weak laugh and an aborted hand gesture. 

Shit. This was his best friend. Danny didn’t deserve to be stuck in the middle of this just because Jackson was a sagging ballsack. 

“Look if I tell you, this stays just between us?” 

“Of course,” Danny said instantly, all of his attention focused on Jackson, and Jackson had to take in a short breath to push down the little burst of pleasure that came forth with it. “I mean, you guys didn’t _murder_ someone did you?” 

Only Peter, but even that wasn’t technically true anymore. Maybe Jackson’s entire sense of self worth. 

Jackson lifted a hand to rub at his mouth, pressing tight enough on his lips that his teeth dug into the edges. 

“Stiles punches me,” Jackson forced out before he could change his mind or say that he was a _werewolf_ instead because at least that would be rejection for a better reason. 

“ _What_?!”

“Stiles punches me, and I like it. We get off on it.” And there, it was out. Jackson didn’t feel any better. 

“So you’re...a masochist? You’re going to have to clarify why this had Stiles calling me in a tizzy, and Jackson, we made that no-talking-about-our-sex-acts pact freshman year for a reason.”

Danny wasn’t acting the way he was supposed to. Jackson needed righteous anger to fuel him if he was going to lose his best friend, and this was not doing it. 

“He’s a Dom. I’m...a sub.” 

“I, uh, okay? But what does that have to do with you coming to your teenage angst spot?” 

“This is not my teenage angst— _Jesus,_ just—you don’t care?” 

Danny’s hand came up to Jackson’s shoulder and squeezed once, then twice before sliding down to grip Jackson’s bicep. “About the sub thing? Jackson the gay community and BDSM community have been intertwined since before we were born; of course it doesn’t bother me. Still a little too close to the sex acts thing for my comfort, and I’m about to get closer because you guys are safe about it right?—”

“We haven’t had sex in weeks because he wanted to plan first.” 

“—Yep, closer than I wanted. But Jackson, that doesn’t explain why Stiles called me, why you’re _here_.” 

The _teenaged angst spot_ was implied with a raise of Danny’s eyebrows, and Jackson was so relieved that he didn’t even care. 

“We were supposed to fuck tonight and I…” Jackson trailed off, remembered Stiles’s face, his shirt in tatters. 

Danny looked like someone had punched _him_ in the face, or maybe like he was going to punch someone or something in the face. 

“Is he forcing you to have sex?” Danny asked, like he couldn’t believe it, and Jackson nearly recoiled. Where the _hell_ had that come from?

“Jesus Christ, Danny. _No._ But what’s the point of being a sub or whatever without it?”

Danny shot him _that_ look, the one usually reserved for people who’d said something truly idiotic in his presence. Jackson hadn’t had it directed at him since they were preteens. “Boyfriends, maybe? A relationship? There’s more to it than sex Jackson.” 

It seemed so obvious to Danny, like it was a normal expectation, but Jackson had never felt normal in his life, no matter how hard he’d tried. It was a new feeling. He and Lydia had some sort of relationship but even that was based around getting off, and the way he felt when people looked at him and Lydia together, like it was something to idolize. 

A relationship with Stiles, on top of the sex. Jesus Christ.

* * *

Jackson stood just out of sight of Stiles’s house, focused on Stiles’s heartbeat. It was solid and comforting and there was only one––the sheriff wasn’t home––and shit he’d turned into McCall. A desperate, needy werewolf. But despite that he kept standing there, listening. Stiles was in his room, and Jackson eyed the upstairs window. 

Shit no, that was a terrible idea. The Stilinskis had screens and Jackson had higher class than that. Desperation had a line and Jackson wasn’t going _that_ far. 

He rang the doorbell instead, like a normal person, and wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans. If Jackson hadn’t heard Stiles thundering down the stairs from there, he might have wondered about how little time it’d taken for him to answer the door, but there he was. Standing in the doorframe like an idiot with his mouth open and in a different shirt, and yet Jackson’s heart swelled a little at the sight. He might as well change his name to fucking McCall at this point.

“You came back,” Stiles said, more like a question than a statement, and Jackson wiped his hands against his jeans again. 

“Yeah.” 

Stiles opened the door wider and Jackson took it as an open invitation. They walked back to Stiles’s room silently, but not uncomfortably, like they were in some sort of liminal space. The space between here and where they wanted to be. 

Stiles’s room looked just like it did before, only the laptop had 3 more windows open and God knows how many tabs, and the computer chair was spinning slowly like Stiles had bolted out of there to answer the door. 

Stiles caught the back of his chair and sat down, tapping his sock foot nervously against one of the wheels, and Jackson leaned back against Stiles’s bedroom door. 

“I told Danny. About us––about _me_.” 

Stiles’s foot stilled at that, but his knee was still jiggling. “Oh,” he said just to break the silence. “Okay.” Stiles looked like he had something else to say, but Stiles always looked like he had something to say. 

Jackson kept quiet, and so did Stiles. 

But with most things, Stiles didn’t stay quiet for long. “Are you okay? After tonight I mean?” 

“Yeah,” jackson replied, and maybe for the first time in a while––maybe before he was a werewolf, before he dated Lydia, before his biological parents died and he’d been given to David and Karen––he was. It was a weird sense of peace, like the short period of time between a lax ball leaving his stick and the when it hit right on target. 

“What are we to each other, Stiles?” 

Stiles looked confused for a second, then tensed up like he was expecting a blow.

“Boyfriends? Dating?” Stiles said in that way that meant ‘Please stop me any time I’m going to just keep talking if you don’t answer.’ 

“Okay,” Jackson agreed. “Boyfriends.” It was so simple, so fucking simple, and Jackson hated that the solution to the mess in his head was so easy. It hadn’t felt easy at all, just confusing and terrifying and horny all mixed into one. 

Stiles’s face lit up in a bright way that made Jackson want to punch him, but in a fond way. 

“Okay Mr. Boyfriend, want to make out until my dad comes home?”

Okay, maybe not just in a fond way. 

“What are we, thirteen?” 

“Hey! I like making out. Plenty of people like making out.” 

Jackson did too, but hell if he wasn’t going to make Stiles work for it. Stiles threw himself onto his bed and made this stupid Goddamn face that Jackson thought was intended to be sexy, and fuck if Jackson’s face hurt trying not to smile at it. Maybe they’d repeat this conversation when neither of them felt so raw. Maybe Jackson would do it on purpose just to see if Stiles would give him a swat.

Jackson slipped his shoes off and climbed in next to Stiles. 

Maybe they’d be okay at this after all.

**Author's Note:**

> LMAO if you actually want updates to this you should maybe prompt me shit you want to see for them in this series. I'm great at filling prompts in a short time. Anything else...not so much. I can't guarantee that I'll actually fill it in the way you want though.
> 
> I decided you'd waited long enough and didn't really edit this. Considering I finished it after drinking and listening to the weeknd pls tell me if you see a note i left to myself ha. (sorry)


End file.
